It’s Sunday so I’m writing you a letter
I’ll tell you of the moments I enjoyed
Don’t worry cos I know I will get better
I wonder if a female poet’s coy
When she will not meet another’s eyes
When she thinks her cell phone is a toy
I’m mainly honest but sometimes I tell lies
Kant’s imperative can bring such joy
Then a doctor hints that I shall die
I learned that my own husband was annoyed
He wanted to divorce me but he fled
He was sort of introverted , shy.
He was very tender when in bed
He called me private names I can’t reveal
His skin broke out in hives when we were wed
I think that bad emotions were concealed
Hiding in the space between the lines
I drank so much my lips became unsealed
Well,we must make an end and that is fine
My hospitality goes downhill at times
Jesus was a Prophet, that’s a sign
The Word is stammered, flesh, oh flesh divine
Category: poetry
Old Norse
I must change my name, it is too long
Even folk from Yorkshire get it wrong
As for those techniciians far away
My long name is very hard to say
I could take the action via law
Or marry someone with a name like Shaw
Smith is overused when we don’t ride
Lord would be ok, can we abide?
I’m tired of being asked to spell it out
It hurts the listener who knows not its roots
Banks and braes are well known to the Scots
Thwaite is an old Norse word . what the heck
We must be invaders who burst in
Killing Celts and Saxons, is that sin?
Another mind
From time and place and season I am lost,
Disorientated ,missing tracks well worn
.Do not suppose I’m unaware of cost,
Nor label me with epithets of scorn.
For usual paths lead to the usual place.
the safest way to live and perhaps to die,
But wandering through the woods I find new space
and in wild grasses with the fox I lie
.Through distant trees, I see a way to go
As narrow as a slit in pale limestone
.I pass in silence as if in deep,deep snow
.My courage rises even as I groan.
Remember when we’re lost ,we may then find
Another way,a place,another mind.
The mystery of love and what we sing
The proper conscience does not wound our hearts
But tells us truly when we have done wrong
It does not injure love before love starts
Its voice is still and small, it is not sharp
Sometimes it impresses us by song
The goodly conscience does not wound our hearts
Yet conscience is no angel with an harp
Unheard when minds are crowded, with thought thronged
It does not tear up love before life starts
It does not use great force, no threats shall rape
But talks to each in their own native tongue
The moral conscience does not wound our hearts
But what of evil men,Satanic sharks,
The mysteries of genocide and bombs?
Do they tear up love’s roots from their hearts?
Even good folk suffer like the lambs
We must enter darkness with blind hands
The proper conscience does not wound our hearts
It does not curse our love before life starts
Like butter in the sun

My heart is soft like butter left in sun.
Much more heat and it will melt and run
Oh, why do we have feelings,why engage
When friendship turns into such bitter rage?
I do not wish to live remote and stern
As if I am so perfect I can’t learn
Pain too deep can mortify the flesh
Turn us into robots fit for trash
All I need is an enormous fridge
Which will make me harder than sweet fudge
I’ll go inside and pray for peace each day
If I freeze to death,I shall not say.
Oh, be of merry heart,my friends and foes
When love comes in, a little hate will go
Revolution
A strange comingling of the mills and moors
Green of nature,smoke from chimneys glowers
While sheep graze their wool is touched by smoke
But higher up the ground is bare of hope
Peering down I recognise the view
Rows of terraced houses share a loo
Women wear their aprons with panache
Boys are playing,give or take a bash.
Miners walking home with faces black
Painters with their ladders and their sacks
Little girls are skipping with their ropes
Cats are watching idly, kittens mope
Which way shall we go, we must decide
The green hill with no walls, the red brick eyes?
Deep roots
When we drove to Cornwall in the spring
The wild flowers in the lane burst into song
We stopped in Weymouth,saw the curving shore
Love seeped even deeper to our cores
The peninsula of Roseland washed our souls
The higher sun shone widely over all
Yet Cornwall is not English,I am sure
Though noone on our isle is truly pure
Hereford and Worcester home of larks
Their green inlands such orchards of the heart
The love that blossoms must gain deep,deep roots
As far below the ground as upper shoots
In that hidden world where beetles creep
Roots grow strong and tangled while we sleep
On the marriage bed we two were one
Now I am alone for you have gone
Yet underneath all vision we are coiled
Your roots and mine live mingled and unspoiled
Dried flowers
Unconscious of our cruelty, we sin
Yet pride ourselves as worthy and refined
Those who know themselves are modest souls
Who do to those around them little harm
Blinded to our our faults we strut about
Causing pain to others, oh what charm
If we break the rules,we have no doubts
From our errors we can never learn
So I look on your insults and smile
Self image admits nothing makes a change
I shall not keep your sentences in files
Unlike dried flowers in vases well arranged
Yet though you now evade a little pain
Your company will never be the same
Now there is no road
No rought beast shall slouch to Bethlehem
There is no track or pattern to our fate
Once Jesus’ feet were bathed by Magdalen
Now communities of love disintegrate.
The world does fall apart, the centre’s gone
There is no named War, but armies kill
Or single, abject men who carry guns
On other nearby folk will shoot at will
There seem to be no ” better” sort of men
But all lack much conviction,common good
They follow gold with bent accountant’s pen
Calvin’s “way to heaven”, Noah’s flood
Now there is no road nor path nor beast
Confusion,chaos,populism will feast
Jesus,where’re your nails?
I’m getting a gold medal for my Mail
My inbox emptied yet itr neve whines
I’ve squared the circle,I don’t need no nail
The Met have found me, fined me,what,no bail?
I’ve never known a Pritti dame so kind
I’m getting a rude letter in my Mail
Human rights are blown out by March gales
Home Secretary,are you going blind ?
I’ve squared the circle,Jesus,where’re your nails?
Leave off murdering women and young girls
Don’t handcuff the survivors,pay their fines
I’m getting bloody metal in my Mail
Our arteries are squeezing,hearts will fail
For the hell, O writer, leave us signs
The circle’s square, I’m hanging by a nail
Well, what do you think of Britain in decline
The police resent ,mad Governments tell lies
I’m getting silver pieces in my Mail
Who’s crucified our God with varnished nails?
As waves die
The music is the waves as they run high
Across the pebbly sands onto the road
Then groaning of the shingle as waves die
The fish that dwell deep in the dark, dark brine
The flow within as outer waters flow
The music of the waves as they run high
The moon reflects sun’s light to other eyes
Above the seas which rise up to its goad.
Then groans the shingle as the steep waves die
The sea holds hidden goods where we can’t pry
In the deep the heavy water moulds
The music of the waves as they run high
All the day and all of the black night
The seas and oceans change from high to low
Ah, groans the earth as each wave has to die
Re-hear these sounds, are they a sacred code?
As angels wrestled, Jacob feared the Lord
His music is the waves as they run high
His groaning is the shingle as waves die
Revealed by love
A beam of light passed through my eyes
And showed to me a world disguised
So near,yet far,we do not see,
Unless by gift of grace redeemed.
That world is full of peace and calm
Its colors mingle,like a balm.
In such a moment all thought dies
Revealing Love which underlies.
Colors caress my naked eyes.
Sunlight blesses new designs.
I stand enthralled,and do not wish
For one delight,other than this.
My breath slows down, and filled with joy,
I rove my eyes with bliss to toy.
Everything is just itself.
This is now my living wealth.
Beneath the noise of city cars,
This mellow joy in love endears
This depth and peace, is always near
When we choose Love and turn from Fear
Air strokes our bare skin
When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin
.When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?
When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born
.When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
When through the soil the first green shoots will break
.For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know
Our bodies pale as fish
We are swimming in deep water,deep and green
I am coming towards you with my fingers stretched
Our bodies pale as fish, our soft hair streams
The deep sea has no sun, yet we can see
The retina is waiting, ready,etched
We are swimming in deep water,deep and green
I see your face and eyes,how well they gleam
Do we have to undergo a test?
Our bodies pale as fish, our soft hair streams
Underneath the ocean are strange scenes
I will tell you later, we are blessed
We are swimming in sea water,deep and green
Our fingers meet, our lips share silver sheen
We float in circles, weightless is our flesh
Our bodies pale as fish, our soft hair streams
What will happen, what shall we do next
Inspiration,grace, we are perplexed
We are floating in deep water,deep and green
Our bodies pale as fish, our soft hair streams
First class ass
I am very clever,give me that
I have got a first class aegrotat
Do you feel that you would like one too ?
Just get chicken pox or maybe flu
I went to York in winter,this is true
Hebden Bridge had icebergs in the loo
Then we were near Grimsby in thick fog
The Humber Ferry crossed like coppers plod
In Hull they gave degrees in geography
Now they teach the gross democracy
That may be where I caught Golders Green
My face is apple and my eyes are teal
I could have done degrees in Law or Greek
I love to hear the way the foreign speak
Give me Aramaic for my tea
Give me ancient Hebrew,I am he.
I learned Dutch but I was not first class
In fact I failed completely,I’m an ass
Float through my mind like flowers
On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
Of finest grass entwined with tiny flowers
The butterflies were floating on the wind
We walked along contented, hand in hand
In Sheringham we saw no faces dour
On summer days the cliffs at Weybourne sang
We met no wasps nor anything that stings
The footpath was kept clear, no weeds to sour
The butterflies were resting on the wind
I looked at bluebells,insects hear their ring
So we passed with pleasure our free hours
On summer days, the cliffs at Weybourne sang
Was it for this perfection Adam sinned?
No human joy is with us very long
The butterflies were resting on the wind
On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
Of grass so fine and of its tiny flowers
The butterflies were floating on the wind
In winter the North wind will make beasts cower
No need for ventilation,faces glower
On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
The butterflies float through my mind, bright, winged
Now speaks the Earth
Now speaks the earth of spring and all its joys.
Now flowers and blossom soothe our lonely eyes.
So happy are the lovers, girls and boys,
As in the daisied meadows they may lie.
Now speaks the sun and makes us want to grow
to open like the flowers for his love
To let the life within us start to flow.
With blessings sent down to us from above.
Now every part of nature is in flood
Fresh leaves point down from trees to holy nests
The birds are active in this little wood,
And dwelling on the tree branch breast to breast.
Oh let’s not waste time glued to inner thoughts.
For we may miss the joy which spring has brought
It fell to earth with solemn gravity
Another branch has fallen from the tree
For nine short months, it weakened and grew dry.
It fell to earth with utter gravity
Is comparing us to trees good simile?
I’d find a better if I’d wits to try
Another branch has fallen from the tree
The tree grieves not, for trees like to be free
Their main desire is stature, to be high.
Dead branches fall to earth by gravity
Some compare life to a drunken sea;
Or to the sky where dance wild nuclei
Yet our most holy symbol is the tree
The strong hang on in their tenacity
Even as their leaves and berries fly
Weaker branches fall with gravity
Death comes so much harder to the high
This is no truth but neither do I lie
Another branch has broken from the tree
Thus disconnected , it is down and free
Yet life endures
Since you died I learned to use a crutch
I have noone to lean on, none to touch
I wanted you to die with kindly ease
Now I miss another I could tease
Noone knows what was our special tree
Nor why the pain of loss dwells in my knee
As if I cannot stand or wait alone
Dark earth is softer than these paving stones
The trees you loved my neighbours see as weeds
I shan’t recite a list of their misdeeds
Others gossip of my coloured coats
A widow’s weeds aren’t teal, they grin, they gloat
Before you went I saw the cloth of gold
Coming down from heaven to enfold
Then it rose, its satin thick and pure
Taking you away, yet life endures
The emptiness, the void, the loss, the pain
The crash severe we know is foreordained
The handkerchief pan
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In the evening. simmering handkerchiefs
Perfumed the air with odours I can’t tell
Mother scrubbed them, hung them on the line
Then I had to iron them, folded well
Now we have our tissues, we don’t need
Hankies that need scrubbing many times
The oceans deep are poisoned with our waste
Is the use of tissues a new crime?
While we did our homework after tea
My brother liked his Wagner at full blast
Imagine learning Latin with that din
Now the time for anger has long passed
Bad memories change by newly given grace
Evoking hints of mother and her face
The cake tins
I see the tins I used for Christmas Cakes
The Russian Cheese Cake and the apple tart
Nowadays do younger women bake?
I remember mother making Buns
Hot,uncross, she made cakes with her heart
Her apple suet pudding beat her plum
The kitchen was a room with its own fire
There we ate and cooked and fought,alarmed
Children pinch and nip and even bite
I banged my head upon the table sharp
The corners seemed to hate me,even spurn
I wished I were a dog so I could bark
I fell down the stairs, it was a thrill
It hurt less than the beatings made me smart
Children were deprived of any will
Shall these cake tins from my home depart?
Shall I make a small cake from a chart?
I hold the tin I used for Christmas Cake
Watching TV where new experts bake
Pen and bell
In this so called office,I am trapped
Trying hard to write and to adapt
I have numerous pens in this my cell
Reminding me of school, the longed for bell
Ten past four, we put on winter clothes
I crossed the Park in fog, it wet my nose
Walking down our street I’d see the cat
Sitting on the pavement, Ginger spat
I put the kettle on to make our tea
The coal glowed low and red like elves in glee
The aluminium teapot never broke
The kettle had turned black , the milk was smoked
I had that tiny piece from others free
That was when I learned that I am Me
Of the green
In the birdbath filled by summer rain
I saw the baby wood pigeon again
So safe the garden, birds became quite tame
Secret,silent, sweet,no cats, it kept me sane
The bird was washing,splashing all about
With darted glances,so few I could count
Then it flew up into a large tree
Holly,maple, apple,I could see
Though it’s winter, sunshine makes me dream
Gazing through the window at this scene
Sap is stirring,rising in soft light
Making these bare branches a new sight
Love came down and lit up this,my heart
Then the grace of being made its start
Now the melancholy’s gone
I feel a kind of numbness on this January day
The darkness came down sudden and I feel it’s here to stay
Shall I make myself some tea and pretend that you are here?
I feel naked like the wood underneath that swish veneer
I’m feeling kinda nothin’ now the melancholy’s gone
Should I be doing summat that’ll give me, like, some fun?
The silence is not threatening, but neither is it good
Did you ever wish yourself , you weren’t made of flesh and blood?
I’m feeling so damned stupid for falling on my back
My shoulder was in agony and there’s whiplash in my neck
The doctor, he injected me, but he said it’s down to luck
He may have missed the mark, he says and I just say,oh heck
Apparently the elderly are not in much demand
I heard a sorta whisper as my head went in the sand
We must keep this hidden or we’ll frighten off the young
They don’t seem to notice but the cat does lick my hand
I didn’t know how old I was till the clock flew off the wall
Isn’t it uncanny what you see before the Fall?
Carnation,orchid ,daffodil and rose.
How softly sweetly,gently flowers pose
Carnation,orchid ,daffodil and rose.
Intricate the petals that should shield
Yet bees with striped force shall make them yield.
Appearances,both natural and contrived,
Mixed with the wiles of human nature thrive.
As, knowing not, we pluck the apple rare
And bite its flesh,with teeth we burn to bare.
We too deceive the innocent who pass
Not seeing watchers hid behind the glass.
The windows break,the deep earth quakes;
Seized is the maiden ,he her virtue takes
.Beneath the surface,force and fierceness thrive.
What fearsome, burning God enjoys our lives?
They haunt the seer

Pendle Hill , the Langdale Pikes are me
They waken up my heart from dull, dark dreams
The marvels are the poignant shapes I see
I recognise them in the grace and fear
Pendle Hill , the Langdale Pikes are me
I’m branded with their shapes so known so dear
Yet how huge shadows frighten,haunt the seer
Pendle Hill , the Langdale Pikes are me
They waken up my heart to what may be
When poets don’t read poetry
When Poets Don’t Read Poetry
Extract:
How a Lack of Reading Shows in Your Work
There’s no rule that says every person who writes poetry must read poetry. Plenty of poets write for the sole purpose of personal expression. Poetry writing can be therapeutic, cathartic, and enjoyable. Nobody needs to read in order to write such poetry. But there’s a difference between writing for oneself and writing for an audience of strangers.
When you don’t read or study poetry, it shows in your work. There are identifiers that expose a lack of readership; here are some of the most common clues:
- Forced rhymes: You can only think of one word that rhymes with lonely, so you force it into your poem even though it makes no sense or interferes with the poem’s focus.
- Meter mishaps: You can’t find a way to arrange the words so that the meter remains intact. Oh well, you decide, and break the meter pattern for that one line. You hope nobody will notice, but everybody does, because that one line throws off the entire flow of the poem.
- Square pegs: Similar to meter mishaps, this is when the language is forced to meet the meter, resulting in phrasings that sounds super awkward because the poet is trying to say something in five syllables that simply cannot be said in less than ten.
- Word blizzard: Probably the most common mark of an unread poet is the sheer wordiness of a poem. There are often tons of unnecessary words, and the poem reads more like natural speech or choppy prose than crafted poetry.
- Art has no editor: This is the mark of many amateur writers, not just poets. But it’s especially common for poets to think that a poem must remain pure, existing in its first-draft from for all of eternity. No editing! These poems are unrefined, peppered with typos, and often display all the other hallmarks of poets who are not well read in their form.

Cleveland Hills
Lying in the heather with you,love
The world below,the cliff edge of the hills
Swainby,Stokesley, Stockton,Saltburn sea
Happy, free, still unaware of bills
The butterflies, the little flower bells
The scent of honey and the Yorkshire bees
I see your face as clear as it was then
But you have crossed the Styx and not the Tees
Yet still I feel your arms that held me near
I see you smile , so happy to be wed
We hitched a lift right to Osmotherly
The entire hill seemed like a marriage bed
There is a place where that sweet day exists
I take your hands and kiss your inner wrists
Nor rain to flood
Katherine May 30, 2018
A mood of stillness like a quiet dove
A lack of wind, vast silence gives repose
Symbolises blessings from above.
My trees mature now form a holy grove
The sorrow ruling me has been deposed
To give me stillness with the nesting dove
In such moods, there’s space to think, compose.
To learn the ways of energy and love
Symbolised by blessings from above.
In the crowded Mall, the shoppers shove
The special mood of peace I fear eludes
We lose the sense of silence and the dove
In public life, we quarrel and oppose
We lose the way to our fine treasure trove
We lose the symbols and the deep repose.
Give me your hand without its heavy glove
As we caress, we value human love.
A mood so stilled, oh, fluttering of the dove
No wind to destroy peace nor rain to flood
The only ritual

The ritual is to put the garbage out
My day begins the night before it’s due
When I recall the day, I have to count
Instead of Mass, we put the garbage out
No Confession so no sin,no horrid doubt
No neighbours and no prayer,no ancient pew
The only ritual left, toss garbage out
My mind begins to think about the clue
Liquid unmodernity
My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears
I need some kind of tampon to absorb this sudden rush
Why did noone tell me this is frightful to endure?
My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears
I think it’s far too late to expect a total cure
I’ll never hear the little voice nor see the burning bush
My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears
Where’s an alcoholic then, to drink the mighty rush

